


Blood on the Snow

by aunt_zelda



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Animal Sacrifice, Blood, Blood Drinking, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Cutting, Execution, Gen, Menstruation, Rituals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 06:22:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10893543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aunt_zelda/pseuds/aunt_zelda
Summary: Drabble I wrote for a prompt game about Cassandra's life. BONUS art by my lovely friend at the end!





	Blood on the Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this for a 15 min prompt game. Prompt was "blood/wounded."
> 
> The amazing art at the end was done by my friend moonsrain, you can find them here: http://moonsrain.tumblr.com/

Blood on the snow. 

It’s a simple thing, a striking image. Painters have spilled red slick streaks over canvases to capture it. Bards have spun tales of the harsh contrast and attention-grabbing instant. Embroiderers have stitched it onto countless battle tapestries to adorn castle walls.

Cassandra does not appreciate the history of the image she creates, as her blood splatters the drifts before her. Time slows, and she has ample seconds to commit the picture to memory, before tumbling forward and plunging into darkness. Not white, not red, merely the inky black of oblivion.

It is snowing when Cassandra leads the rebellion against the Briarwoods. All of fourteen years old and she sees blood mingling with the white flakes from the sky. She sees it turn the snowy streets from grey-white to pink-red. She sees it on the pale mouth of Sylas Briarwood as he rips a woman’s throat out. She sees blood in the eyes of the few survivors who are strung up on the Sun Tree, the pressure of the nooses causing the tiny veins to burst. _Capillaries …_ says the voice of her brother, a distant memory, from a hundred years ago … _the smallest of veins, Cassandra, if you’re not going to properly study then leave me in peace …_

She knows what it means when she wakes with an aching belly and blood between her thighs, she had an elder sister after all. There is a moment when she panics, wonders if she could burn her sheets in the fireplace, but of course Sylas has long since smelled it. “First blood,” Lady Delilah greets her at the breakfast table, raising a glass in greeting. “This is a special day, my dear. You’re a woman now.” Cassandra is gifted with a peasant to spare from Sylas, a peasant she holds while Delilah performs a ritual at sundown. Cassandra learns that blood, at night, looks black against her pale skin.

Winter’s Crest. A year has turned since she was freed, but she knows that she will never truly be free. The sun hangs low on the horizon and the knife throbs in her hand. It is old, very very old, older than the castle itself. The snow has not risen especially high this season, barely to the lowest branches of the Sun Tree. Cassandra slits the throats of the rat, the chicken, and the bound stag. Then she bares her arm and touches the dripping knife to the crook of her elbow. Blood on snow, soaking the ground, swallowed up by the tree even in the depths of winter. She cleans the blade and wraps a cloth around her arm. The ground throbs beneath her feet.

Blood on the snow. It’s a simple thing, but an important one.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
